Snippets from Godric's Hollow
by athenaharmony
Summary: The story of a life in a little house in the sleepy town of Godric's Hollow, told in snippets beginning on a chilly night, when Hermione turns up unexpectedly on the doorstep. If you're looking for bits of sweet fluff and friendship, come in and enjoy!
1. On Your Doorstep

The breeze was uncharacteristically nippy in the little town of Godric's Hollow when Harry popped into being behind a plump evergreen tree. He shivered and pulled his black cloak more tightly around himself against the wind. Luckily, the walk to the little house that had once belonged to his mother and father was fairly short, as all walks were in Godric's Hollow, and he did not expect to be out in the elements for long. The streets were deserted as he walked, for which he was grateful, since he had received more than a few confused and slightly worried looks from the residents on his last few visits. He assumed that the cloak was what did it, since none of the people in the little town knew who he was, at least to his knowledge. It was one of the many reasons for which he loved the place.

As he rounded the last bend on the way to the house, he frowned in confusion. He knew the sight of the front of the building that was soon to be his new home very well at this point, and he was quite sure that there was not usually anything on the doorstep. As he approached, befuddled and a little worried—who was leaving things on his doorstep when no one in the magical world besides a few close friends knew about his plans to move?—he realized the thing on the doorstep was not a thing at all, but a person, and a familiar one at that.

"Harry!" Hermione cried upon seeing him, bounding off the front steps. Before Harry could comprehend what was going on, she had her arms wrapped around his neck and her face buried in his shoulder. It took him a few seconds to realize that her cheeks were wet with tears.

"Hermione?" he said, bewildered and more than a little worried now. "What's the matter?"

"I'm so stupid!" she declared into his shoulder. She was trembling, he noticed, and he quickly wrapped his arms around her and gave her a reassuring squeeze to steady her. "I've been so stupid, Harry," she added more quietly.

"What happened?" he asked. She sniffled softly and cleared her throat, clearly trying to calm herself.

"I quit," she said. Her voice trembled a little on the second word, as though she was afraid to say it aloud. "Godric, Harry, I quit. I've never quit anything in my life, I-"

"Wait, what did you quit?" he asked. She lifted her head from his shoulder. She was very pale, he noticed, and her eyes were red. He understood that she had been crying for much longer than the few moments since he had arrived.

"Training," she said. "Auror training." Her lower lip trembled a little and she bit it to steady it. "I'm so stupid," she muttered, looking up at the inky sky as though she believed that she would find a solution there.

Harry blinked in shock and tried very hard to make sense of what she was telling him. He had never heard the words "I quit" come from Hermione's mouth in more than seven years, not even during the long months they had spent starving half to death and freezing in the tent on their Horcrux hunt, and now she had turned up on his doorstep, telling him that she had quit her job. He took a slow breath.

"Okay," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, why did you quit? What happened?"

She sighed and put her head back on his shoulder, seeming unable to hold it up on her own.

"Nothing monumental, really," she murmured. "My trainer gave me a tongue-lashing for taking an unauthorized break from running laps, which is hardly abnormal, but I just… I was exhausted, and everything hurt so badly, and I snapped." She took a shaky breath before she went on. "I don't even remember what I said anymore, but I know that none of it was good, and I'm almost certain that I started swearing a blue streak at some point in my tirade, which I'm sure must have been very amusing for everyone watching. I really let him have it, which felt wonderful at the time, until I realized that there was no way I was coming back after all that I had said. It was at that point that I decided to scrape up whatever dignity I had left in everyone else's eyes by quitting on my own instead of being fired." She sighed softly and released him before returning to her seat on the front steps, drawing her knees up to her chest, and resting her head on them. "It was such a ridiculous thing to do," she muttered, "but I couldn't help it once I got started. I'm just so bloody tired all the time, and I couldn't take the criticism anymore. I couldn't." A single tear rolled down her cheek as he sat next to her on the cold cement. "How could I be so weak, Harry?" she asked quietly. "All my life, I've never given up on anything, and now I turn around and walk out on my job because it's _too_ _hard_." She spat the words in a self-deprecating voice that Harry had never heard, and he reached for her again, desperate to offer her comfort in some way, and placed one hand on her back, hoping she would understand that he was trying hard to be supportive.

"'Mione…" he began before he realized that he had no idea of what he was going to say. He fell silent for a few moments before he finally managed, "Look, Hermione, everybody has a breaking point. Maybe…" He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "Maybe you aren't meant to do _everything_, you know? Maybe you've just found out that being an Auror isn't the best choice for you."

She sniffled and wiped her eyes on the back of one hand before returning her head to her knees.

"Maybe," she murmured. "But… I just wanted it so badly."

"I know you did," he assured her, lightly patting her back. "Everyone knows you did, and we all watched you working yourself half to death trying to make it happen. Nobody's going to think that you quit because you're lazy and just don't want to make an effort," he added, knowing that she would worry. "We all know that these past few months have been really hard on you—it shows, you know—and… Well, some of us have actually been starting to wonder if you might be better off somewhere else," he admitted.

She looked at him for a long moment before she spoke.

"Have you, now?" she said. He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. Her tone was not accusing, but it clearly indicated that she knew that "some of us" meant him, and he felt suddenly guilty, as though he was the only one in their little group of friends who had not had complete faith in Hermione's ability to see her goal through to the end.

"Well, yes, I mean…" he began awkwardly."It just… bothers me a bit to see you looking so run down," he explained, deciding to abandon the ghostly figures he had aligned with himself and simply own his own thoughts. He hated lying to Hermione, and there was no point doing it when she already knew that he was. "I know that Auror training is really hard work, but… Well, maybe it's just a Healer thing," he said, trying to make light of his worries, "but you've lost a lot of weight, and you weren't heavy to begin with, and you always look tired, and…" Not knowing what else to do, he shrugged and studied his shoes. "It just isn't healthy, and I've been worried about you, is all," he finished lamely.

She nodded and was quiet for a few minutes. The wind blew picked up, swirling around them on the cold cement doorstep, and Harry wordlessly took off his cloak and wrapped it around Hermione's shoulders. He has his Healer's robes on, after all, while she only wore the white tee shirt and deep purple jogging pants that constituted her training uniform. His cloak turned out to be more than large enough to wrap around her small body, proving his point about how much weight she had lost. They had both been very underweight at the end of the Final Battle at Hogwarts, months of stress and minimal food having taken their toll, and she had only just reached a healthy weight for someone her age when she started training and proceeded to lose half of what she had regained, this time to a combination of intense stress, long nights of studying, and long days of continuous duelling and countless laps.

"Thanks," she murmured, pulling the cloak a little tighter around herself.

"Anytime," he replied just as quietly. After a moment, he could not stand the silence any longer. "'Mione?"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry, you know," he said, "if I've said something stupid. I didn't really know what to say."

She shook her head.

"You haven't said anything wrong, Harry," she assured him. "You've made a good point, actually."

"Have I?" he asked, relieved.

She nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I… Well, I'm not suddenly going to feel like what I did was right, because I'm still very disappointed in myself, and it's going to take me awhile to get past that, but maybe… maybe you're right," she conceded. "Maybe I'm better off this way. I certainly haven't been feeling my best lately," she admitted. "Physically or emotionally, not that you want to talk about my feelings," she said with a very small, knowing grin.

"I would if it would help you feel better," he offered, a little desperately.

"It's all right," she assured him. She reached out and twined her fingers with his. "I won't put you through that, at least not right now. I just… I just need to think," she said. She shivered and readjusted the cloak around her shoulders. "I need to figure out what I'm going to do now. I've got a little money saved up from training, but it won't be enough to keep my room at the Cauldron for much longer." She sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears. "I suppose I'm going to have to move back in with my mum and dad, and won't that be fun? Every day, I'll get to be reminded that they _would_ have sent me to university so that I could get a _proper_ education if I hadn't been so pigheaded and insisted on getting a job in _my_ world. What a treat."

Harry frowned. The last thing that Hermione needed right now was someone rubbing her face in what she had done. She was beating herself up enough as it was without her parents lending a hand.

"Stay with me," he blurted as the idea struck him. She looked at him.

"Sorry?"

"Stay with me," he repeated as he worked it out in his head. "The house isn't huge, but it's more than big enough for two, and I could really use your help getting it set up," he said, inclining his head towards the front door behind him. "You're better at magic than I am—you are," he added when she opened her mouth to protest by force of habit. "Things would go a lot faster with you around, and you would have somewhere to stay until you get back on your feet. It would be good for both of us, wouldn't it?"

She considered that for a moment.

"It wouldn't make you uncomfortable," she asked at last, "living with a girl?"

He shrugged.

"We've lived together before," he pointed out. His lips quirked. "You've already seen me in my pyjamas. I don't expect there's much else that I can still be uncomfortable about. What about you?" he added. "Would it bother you to live with a boy?"

She shook her head.

"You've already seen me in my pyjamas, too, if you recall," she said, grinning slightly as well. "I suppose you're right: if we managed to share a tent for several weeks without killing each other, I'm sure we could manage to get along in a house."

"So, that's settled, then?" he asked. She nodded.

"Thanks, Harry," she murmured. "Really. I swear I'll make it up to you someday," she added solemnly, squeezing his hand. He squeezed back.

"'Mione, I owe you my life several times over," he pointed out softly. "The least I can do is keep a roof over your head and make sure you have enough to eat. Speaking of which," he added before she could say anything else, "you're cold, and it's well past suppertime now. Let's get you home and see if Tom can find you some of his marvellous pea soup, hm?" When he watched her lips quirk into a tentative grin, he felt heartened and gave her a hand another squeeze. "Hm?"

Finally, she chuckled softly. It was a beautiful sound.

"All right," she agreed. "Okay, let's go. But I'm not eating that soup unless you do, too."

He smiled as he stood and helped her up from the steps.

"Fine, if it doesn't eat me first."

She laughed as they set off, arm in arm, for the plump evergreen in the distance.


	2. Housewarming

Opening the front door of the little house in Godric's Hollow was always a bittersweet experience for Harry. It was good, very good, to return to the place where he had once lived with his mother and father, even if he did not consciously remember the preciously short time that he had spent there. The best he could do was piece together a scrap of a life from even smaller scraps of remembrance that came to him in dreams every now and then, scraps that he could not even be sure were real and not simply the fabrications of a lonely child's imagination, concocted by a merciful mind to get him through the darkest hours of the night in a cramped cupboard under a flight of stairs. However, to step into the house was to step onto the same rug on which his father had once lain motionless after his brave but brief attempt to protect his wife and infant son. To climb the stairs was to place his feet in the ghostly tracks of Snape and Voldemort, both of whom had set foot there in search of his mother, albeit for very different reasons. Even a touch of his hand on the front doorknob sent spirits swirling around him and evoked a strange mixture of love and grief, of longing to take in the sight of the home that had once been theirs and a desire to turn and run away, to the point where he had to pause a take a quiet breath before he could push the door open and step in with Hermione close behind him. Each time, the longing to live alongside his parents' memory was a little stronger than the urge to run, but it still shook him, and he hoped that she would not notice.

Whether she noticed his discomfort or not was unclear, but she did pause in silence for a moment after she gently placed her bag on the floor, looking around the living room with those calm brown eyes, taking everything in, and, he knew, quietly tucking it away somewhere in her mind, to be pulled out and analyzed at some later time.

"It's a lovely old place," she said at last. Her voice was soft, as though they stood in a church instead of a rather run-down house. Harry had already repaired the worst of the structural damage with the help of Remus and the Weasley men, but there were no traces of decorating to speak of, no signs of fresh colour or new life in sight. In fact, he thought, they had probably made the old place look worse, tramping about as they patched up holes and replaced warped boards, dirtying up the carpet and smudging the walls with their fingerprints. He was pulled from his thoughts when she turned to him and asked, in a brighter voice, "So, where do you want me to sleep?"

Never having had houseguests before, he was caught off-guard by the question.

"Er… Anywhere you want, really," he said, glancing around as though a bed would pop up from the living room floor if he focused his gaze on just the right place. "All of the bedrooms have beds in them, and I don't have one picked out."

She gave him a curious look.

"Well, you'll be wanting the master, won't you?" she asked, as though it was obvious. "It's your house, after all."

"Yeah…" he said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. Something had occurred to him, but he was afraid that it might sound stupid. "Yeah, I guess that'll be the one, won't it?"

She continued to look a him for a few moments before something changed in her face. Her expression seemed to soften as she said, "Oh. Oh, I see."

"What?" he asked, a little uncomfortable.

"You want to sleep in your nursery, don't you, Harry?" she asked gently. He felt his cheeks warm a little with embarrassment.

"Well, I…" he began. "I mean, I don't have my heart set on it or anything. I… I guess it's kind of weird for a grown man to be sleeping in a nursery anyway," he muttered. Suddenly, the whole idea felt silly. He tried to smile, to laugh it off. "I mean, there are still pictures of little Snitches and things on the walls. Never mind, it's not important."

"Harry," she said. She placed her hand on his arm. "It's most certainly important, and if that's what you want, go ahead." When he continued to look unsure, she gave his arm a gentle squeeze and added, "Merlin knows you'd like Snitches on your walls anyway."

He managed a smile, glad that she understood.

"Well," she said, picking up her bag again, "if that's settled, is there another room besides the master?"

It was Harry's turn to give her a curious look.

"Don't you want the bigger room?" he asked. He was surprised when she looked uncomfortable.

"Well, of course I would, but… It was your parents' room, Harry," she said. "I'm not about to go barging in there."

"It's fine," he said. "Really. I bought the place for people to live in it." Despite what some people might think, despite what he knew that his closest friends had feared, he had no intention of living forever among the old, broken remains of the family life that he had experienced for only the briefest of moments in the grand scheme of things, wandering among the empty rooms and wondering what had once come to pass in each one. He meant to remember his mother and father here, had certainly chosen to continue his life where it had begun in order to feel closer to them, but he had no desire to live among greying walls and grieve for the ghosts of people he would never see again. It was a fresh start he wanted, with new coats of coloured paint and pictures of his smiling friends on the walls, to add new memories to the old ones and replace the ghosts with cheerful spirits.

"Are you sure?" she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Positive," he assured her. "Come on, I'll show you where it is. It's just a bed and a dresser with white walls around them at this point, but we'll take care of that soon enough," he added as they climbed the stairs. All of the walls in the house were white, except for the ones in the little room that had once been his nursery. Even there, time and the elements had faded the paint, and only the faint outline of little Snitches remained. The whole building was like a blank canvas, waiting for someone to breathe life onto it.

"Here we are," he said, gently pushing the door open. The room was fairly large and brightly lit, with Saturday sunlight streaming through the large windows. Here, at least, the white on the walls was actually intentionally painted—Mr. Weasley had taken care of it after patching up a few holes. Plain and empty as it was, it was probably the best-looking room in the house.

"I'm glad you're here, you know," he said, following Hermione into the room. He sat down on the edge of the new mattress that he had bought, which sat in the frame of his parents' bed. It was only then that he remembered that none of the beds was actually made. He would have to snag some blankets from Grimmauld Place until he and Hermione took care of the task of buying proper bedding. It was the sort of thing that she would have thought to arrange, he mused as she sat down beside him. "I'm really going to need your help to brighten the place up."

She managed a small smile. She had been very quiet and reserved ever since she had turned up on his doorstep three days earlier, having impulsively walked out on Auror training. This was the most cheer she had yet shown.

"You'll have it," she said. "Considering it'll be my only job for the foreseeable future." Her tone was more self-deprecating than self-pitying, but he still wanted to offer some sort of reassurance, to remind her that things were going to be all right. Before he could think of something to say, however, she spoke again. "We'll make it nice, Harry, I promise," she said.

She looked around the blank room, and he could almost hear the wheels in her mind turning as she evaluated the space surrounding her. He wondered what she was planning.

"We'll make it into a home again," she declared. "A good one. Don't you think?"

She looked at him, and he saw an energetic sparkle in her eyes that had not even flickered there in what he felt sure was several months, at least. Abruptly, it occurred to him that he had not been quite as bumbling in the way he had handled her on that chilly night on the doorstep after all. He had given her a project, something tangible to work on, something that she could organize and accomplish and about which she could be generally Hermione-like. Proud of himself, he offered her a smile.

"Yes," he agreed. "A great one."

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but for the first time since he had stepped into the little house in Godric's Hollow, he found that he felt fully relaxed and at home. The spirits still flitted around him, to be sure, but their presence was more uplifting than discomfiting now. It was as though they had heard her, he mused, and it had quieted them, so that they no longer buffeted him unexpectedly but instead settled contentedly into the corners of the room around him. On a grateful impulse, he leaned over to lightly brush his lips against her cheek. She went a bit pink at the gesture.

"What was that for?" she asked, one hand coming up to touch her cheek.

He was not sure if he could explain it to her.

"Just because," he said. "Come on," he added to change the subject, "I'm hungry. Let's have lunch. I've already stocked the kitchen; it would be a waste to not take advantage of it."

She continued to look at him for a moment before she finally smiled softly and let her hand fall away from her cheek.

"Trust you to bring the food before the bedding," she said.

"You can't eat bedding," he replied as he stood up and offered her his hand, which she accepted. She chuckled.

"I suppose not, and you're right: lunch would be wonderful. We'll have ourselves a little housewarming party."

He grinned as they left the room and headed downstairs to the kitchen. All around him, the spirits murmured happily in agreement. "Housewarming" was just the right word.


	3. A Splash of Colour

It was funny, Harry mused, the way things sometimes worked out. When he, Hermione, and Ron had left The Burrow to set out on their own, he had feared that he and his friends would drift apart and fall into a pattern of hastily-penned, empty letters and awkward annual Christmas reunions. Instead, he found himself seated on the plastic-covered floor of the house that had once belonged to his parents, contemplating a can of scarlet paint as he listened to Hermione's soft, cheerful whistling. She sat cross-legged on the floor only a few feet away from him, touching up the paint around the baseboard of the wall that they had finished painting the previous day. Her small frame was wrapped in one of his old plaid shirts, her hair was tied up in a ponytail, and she looked cheerful for the first time in a long while. He had not seen her in a good mood since she had dropped out of Auror training and turned up on his doorstep a fortnight earlier. She had made herself useful since then, no doubt, and the move into Godric's Hollow had been accomplished much faster with her help, but she had been quiet and withdrawn through most of it, mired in self-deprecation after her impulsive decision to step off of her meticulously planned career path and wander into uncharted territory. It was good to see her show some cheer at last.

"That wall isn't going to paint itself, you know," she informed him, pulling him from his thoughts. He looked up from the circle of paint in the can before him and found her looking at him with an amused half-grin on her lips. "Funny how you only end up deep in thought when you're supposed to be doing something productive."

He made a wounded face at her.

"Ouch," he said as he picked up the can of paint and poured it into a tray. On impulse, he tipped a fingertip into the paint and flicked it at her in retaliation. He grinned when she gave what seemed to be a genuinely scandalized gasp and looked down at the red drops that had appeared on her chest.

"You're going to ruin your shirt," she protested. He shrugged.

"You're always making me buy new clothes anyway," he pointed out, flicking more paint at her.

She considered that for a moment before a wicked grin touched her lips.

"Well, in that case…" she said. Using her brush, she spread crimson paint over her own fingertips, and Harry soon found himself dotted with red as well. He chuckled and, inspired, pressed his palm into the tray of paint, scooted over to her, and stamped his handprint onto her back before she could get out of the way. Laughing, she twisted to look at the red mark on the blue cloth of her shirt.

"Oh, now it's on," she declared, and with that she spread both of her hands with paint and lunged at him, imprinting her hands on both of his shoulders and taking both of them to the ground, where a lively wrestling match ensued, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional squeal from Hermione. The little of her Auror training that she had completed had done her good, Harry thought, for every time he was sure that he had won, she managed to break free and reverse their positions. He would marvel, later, that they managed to avoid both the half-full can of paint and the tray on the floor. Finally, the deciding factor was the simple difference in their weights, and in the confusion of their friendly tussle, he ended up fully on top of her, both of them laughing breathlessly as she finally slumped against the floor and conceded defeat. They were both heavily splattered with red paint, and, without thinking, he used his thumb to gently wipe away a smear of red on her cheek. She went quiet at his touch, and suddenly Harry became acutely aware of the reality of their position, of the softness of the slightly flushed skin under his hand and the fact that she was leaning slightly into his touch. He quickly pulled his hand away, but that did little to help the fact that he was still fully on top of her.

"Paint," he explained, showing her his thumb.

Her lips quirked slightly.

"You, too," she said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek in turn as she gently wiped the paint away.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"Anytime," she replied. Her hand was still on his face, and it occurred to him that he had no desire for her to take it away. He looked down at her, unsure of what to do next, and found her looking up at him. Her face was still a little pink, and he wondered if it was due to the exertion of their wrestling match or to the position in which she found herself. After a moment, she dropped her hand back to her side.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" he replied. He was surprised when it came out as a squeak and cleared his throat quickly, trying very hard to ignore the fact that for the first time in his life, he wanted, very badly, to kiss Hermione. He had pecked her on the cheek from time to time, certainly, and had done so frequently over the past two weeks, to comfort her in the moments when her mood darkened and to thank her for all of the work that she was doing to turn the old house into a new home for the two of them, but this was not the same. Once or twice, in the process of giving her one of his friendly pecks, he had very nearly brushed his lips against hers when she turned her head unexpectedly, and he had felt some interest then, a desire to know how she would react to such a gesture, but never before had he felt such a sense of longing, of certainty that he would never forgive himself if he let this moment go to waste.

"You're still on top of me," she informed him.

"Er…" He felt his face redden. "Yeah, ah…" He knew that the obvious solution was for him to move, but the prospect was very unattractive. Instead, he found himself reaching for her again, resting his hand against her cheek, which still sported a touch of red paint. "'Mione?"

"Yes?"

It comforted him to hear a slight tremble in her voice. She was unsure of what was happening, too. He lightly ran his thumb over her lips, the object of much contemplation over the past few seconds, and felt his mouth go dry at the thought of what he was about to say.

"Would you be really upset with me if-?"

"No," she cut him off.

He bit his lip.

"No, you wouldn't be upset, or no, you don't want me to-?"

He broke off as he watched a smile spread across her lips.

"No, I wouldn't be upset," she said quietly.

His pulse spiked under the paint-splattered fabric of his shirt.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really," she replied. Her face reddened a little. "In fact… Well, it would make me really happy if you did," she admitted very softly.

"Oh," he said as realization hit him. "Oh, wow."

They lapsed into silence for several seconds, neither one moving.

"Harry?" she said at last.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"Not to, you know, rush you or anything, but… Are you going to kiss me or not?" she asked, biting her bottom lip once she had said it.

He laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

"Yeah," he assured her. He wet his lips uncertainly. He wanted to kiss her—he wanted to kiss her very much—and yet he struggled to actually do it with almost a decade of being adamantly "just friends" ingrained in him. It was the first time, he realized, that he had ever been the one to do the kissing. He was used to having girls do the deed and then going along with it. "Yeah, I will. I'm just… trying to work up to it at the moment."

She smiled again.

"Oh, Harry… D'you want some help?" she asked. He laughed again.

"That would be great," he said. He felt her hand slide around the back of his neck and she gently pulled him down to her.

"Better?" she asked. He was close enough to feel her warm breath against his mouth.

"Yeah, loads," he murmured, and the next few minutes dissolved into a pleasant blur as he finally closed the distance between them.


	4. A Spirited Conversation

The living room of one little house in Godric's Hollow was silent except for the steady ticking of the clock on the wall and the much more spontaneous pops and cracks of the cheery fire in the hearth. Harry sat on the couch in the centre of the room, his back resting against one corner and his feet almost touching the opposite armrest, warm and comfortable under an emerald green blanket, with a heavy book on his lap. Hermione had developed a bit of a cough over the past few days, and though it did not seem serious, he thought it best to take a quick look at his Potions textbooks in case it worsened abruptly. He had levitated three volumes to the living room from the study upstairs, preferring the couch to the straight-backed desk chair. Besides, the study was not quite finished yet, despite Hermione's constant work on it, while the living room had been one of the first rooms that they had completed in the six weeks since he and Hermione had moved in. Instead of chipped and faded white, the walls were now a deep shade of emerald green that almost matched the blanket that covered his legs, and the old furniture had been reupholstered in thick, soft fabric in shades of brown, giving the room a much cosier atmosphere. The curtains on the big picture window were chocolate brown and pulled to either side of the glass, allowing Harry a pretty view of the little town outside, gaily bedecked in twinkling red, green, and gold Christmas lights, with wreaths hanging from each streetlight. The grass and streets were still stubbornly snow-free despite the fact that it was early December, but the dip that the temperature had taken over the past few days held promise for flurries soon.

Harry's happy contemplation of the world outside his window was suddenly cut short by a whoop from upstairs, which surprised him so much that he dropped his book to the floor with a solid thump.

"'Mione?" he called. "Is everything all right up there?"

There was no answer from upstairs, but he did hear the rapid thumping of footfalls on the steps before someone with curly brown hair quite literally jumped on him, nearly taking both of them to the floor, along with the couch. Whatever protest that Harry could have managed in his shocked state was quickly muffled by the pair of soft lips suddenly pressed firmly against his. There was nothing rational to do, he thought, but to respond to the gesture until things started making a little more sense.

Finally, after a few moments, the lips left his and he took in the sight of the grinning, flush-faced witch who had unexpectedly taken up residence on top of him.

"I got it!" she announced, nuzzling his nose in clear delight. "Can you believe it?"

"Got what?" he asked, bewildered. For the first time, he noticed that she had a piece of parchment in one hand.

"That job at Flourish and Blotts, remember?" Her lips quirked again. "I've only been talking about it for the past three weeks, Harry."

"Oh, right," Harry said a little sheepishly. He did remember the job, had even looked over and praised the cover letter she had submitted when she applied. He grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist. "That's excellent."

"Isn't it?" she agreed. "I was so sure that I wouldn't get it; it's just too perfect, but maybe I had a lucky break coming."

She pecked him on the lips again and nudged him over on the couch so that she could settle in next to him. It did not take long for them to find a comfortable position, considering the number of times they had shared the couch over the past few weeks. Harry was not quite sure of how to describe the change that had occurred in his and Hermione's relationship, since they were not "seeing each other", per se, given that they were already living in the same house and saw each other on a regular basis, nor were they "dating", since he had not actually taken her on any official dates. He supposed that he could call her his girlfriend if someone asked him about it, but they had not agreed on any specifics regarding the aftermath of what had happened while they were painting a few weeks ago. All he knew was that she had not smacked him for kissing her that fateful day, nor had she seemed averse to kissing him several times each day after that, and that she seemed comfortable settling in beside him on the couch in the evenings to read, talk, or simply rest after a long day of painting and arranging furniture.

She sighed contentedly and idly traced a pattern on the blanket that still partly covered his chest and legs with her fingertip.

"Do you suppose I would be good at breaking up fights?" she asked.

He blinked and gave her a curious look.

"Well, you've always done well keeping Ron and me from murdering each other, and you must have benefitted a little from Auror training, so I suppose so, but why?"

She grinned up at him.

"It's in the job description," she explained. "I expect I'll have to separate quite a few desperate parents when the back-to-school rush rolls around."

She turned her head away for a moment to cough into the crook of her arm before settling down on his chest again. He frowned.

"That cough doesn't sound good."

As he had expected, she rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, Harry, for the millionth time, I feel fine," she said. "I've been inhaling paint fumes, sawdust, and several other things for the past six weeks, if you recall."

"Still," he insisted. "Maybe I should make you something for it before it gets worse." He started to get up from the couch, but barely managed to raise his head before she wrapped an arm around his chest, pinning him.

"Hey," she protested, "don't leave; I've only just got comfortable."

When he settled down again, she gave him a squeeze.

"You could at least give your girl a minute or two of celebratory cuddling," she informed him as she laid her head back on his chest.

He blinked in surprise for the second time that night.

"So you're my girl now, are you?" he asked, trying to sound casual. She looked up at him with a hint of worry in her expression.

"Aren't I?" she asked in the same falsely casual tone. "I mean, with the way things have been between us for the past few weeks, I… I just sort of assumed…"

When silence fell between them for a few moments and he did not answer, she bit her lip uncertainly and sat up.

"It's okay, you know," she said quickly, "if you don't want-"

"No," Harry cut in, sitting up as well. "No, I do. I really do; it's just that I didn't know if you did, since we didn't, you know, make it official or anything…"

"Oh," she said. Relaxing visibly, she offered him a small smile. "Well, of course I do, Harry." She allowed him to take her back into his arms when he reached for her. "Merlin, what kind of woman do you take me for?" she asked lightly. "Do you think I just go around kissing men I'm not serious about?"

Relieved, he pecked her on the forehead and settled back down with her in his arms.

"No, I don't suppose you do," he agreed. "But…"

He stopped himself and trailed off, not sure if he wanted to bring up the thought that had just occurred to him.

"But what?" she asked.

"It's just…" He sighed softly, knowing that he was about to make himself sound like a girl, an idiot, or both. "It's just that I'm rubbish at this stuff- Relationships with a capital "R", I mean," he clarified. "And… Well, Merlin, Hermione, you deserve someone who's going to be able to treat you right, someone who isn't going to say really stupid things or mess up the important stuff, and it's more than likely that that isn't me," he finished, feeling his face warm.

There was a short silence before Hermione broke it.

"Harry," she said, "did it ever occur to you that I'm just as clueless about relationships as you are? I've never been with anyone before," she reminded him, "so Merlin knows I'll probably make my share of mistakes. Besides," she added when he opened his mouth, "I'm not expecting you to sweep me off of my feet and carry me off into the sunset. I'm not looking for a fairytale. I just… I care about you, Harry—I have for a long time—and I'd really like to be with you, as your friend and your partner," she said. She moved her head from his chest so that she could look at him properly. "Assuming you'll have me, of course."

"Assuming I'll have you," he repeated in disbelief. How was it, he wondered, that the woman to whom he owed his life several times over, the woman who had suffered unspeakable pain and emotional trauma just for staying steadfastly by his side during the worst years of his life, could question whether he would accept her as a partner? "For Merlin's sake, Hermione, I'm the one who should be honoured to know that you would even consider having me."

She chuckled softly.

"Can I take that as a yes?" she asked.

"Of course," he said.

She settled her head back on his chest, seeming quite content.

"Good," she said.

They were quiet for a few minutes, simply enjoying each other's company and the relief that they both felt after finally clarifying where they stood in their relationship, before he felt her smile.

"Look, Harry," she said, "it's snowing."

He shifted a little to look out the window. It had, indeed, begun to snow, and fat flakes drifted lazily past the window before settling in the grass, making it look as though someone had had a pillow fight outdoors.

"I hope it stays," said Hermione. "Do you remember how beautiful it was the first time we came here?"

Harry had been somewhat preoccupied on that first trip, but he did remember snippets of the scenery. He remembered enjoying the way that the Muggle Christmas lights had looked against the blanket of snow. He remembered the way that Hermione's wreath of roses had stood out against the white background particularly clearly.

"I remember," he said. He twined his fingers with hers on his chest. "'Mione?"

"Yes?"

"Maybe we should… you know… go back over to visit my parents again soon," he suggested quietly. He felt her give his fingers a squeeze.

"You want me to go with you?" she asked.

"Of course," he said. "I never introduced you properly last time. I know it probably seems stupid," he murmured, feeling his face warm. "I mean, they aren't even able to hear me, but-"

"Shh," she said gently. She scooted up on the couch to kiss his cheek. "It isn't stupid. They're your parents, Harry. I'm sure they're around to listen."

"You think so?"

"I do," she said. She smiled at him again. "Come on, you can't tell me that you've never felt anything in this house."

He blinked at her.

"Well, yes, but I thought that was just me," he said. "You know, imagining them, or remembering, or something."

She shook her head.

"No," she murmured, "I think they're here, popping in and out, checking up on things. Usually, I wouldn't believe that sort of thing, but I swear someone watches me while I paint sometimes. There's never anyone there if I turn around, of course, but the feeling's too strong for me to just dismiss it."

She said this so calmly that Harry blinked again, quite taken aback by her readiness to accept such a thing.

"That doesn't frighten you?" he asked.

"Mm, no," she said. "It did at first, a little, but after the first few times, I realized that whoever it was wasn't there to hurt me, so I just kept working as though they weren't there, and it seems they're happy to leave me to it." She shrugged. "If it is your parents, maybe they're happy to see their home being put back together."

"I hope so," said Harry.

A comfortable silence fell between them, during which they both watched the snow fall outside.

"Speaking of putting a home together, I think we should get a Christmas tree soon," Hermione continued after a minute or two. "We won't be able to decorate the house very much, with all the work we still need to do, but it wouldn't feel right to spend Christmas without a tree."

"Why not?" Harry agreed. He smiled. "We'll get a nice, big one."

She shrugged again.

"Oh, it doesn't have to be big," she said.

"Sure it does," he said. He felt his face warm again, though for a much more pleasant reason this time. "I mean, this is… you know… our first Christmas together and everything," he explained, giving her fingers a squeeze. "Even I understand that that's important. I want it to be good."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I liked your choice of words there," she finally said.

"Why?" he asked, confused. She smiled softly.

"You said it's our first Christmas together," she explained. He could see a touch of pink on her cheeks. "That means you expect there'll be more."

"Well, of course I do," he said. "I'm sorry," he added, embarrassed, when she continued to look at him. "I guess it's too early for me to say stuff like that, right?"

One side of her mouth quirked.

"No," she said. To his surprise, she moved up a little more so that she could prop herself up, bringing them nose-to-nose. There was a sort of twinkle in her eye that comforted him. "You know, Harry," she murmured, "you're not quite as inept at this as you think."

"I'm not? Mmph," was all he managed to say before she led the conversation in a somewhat less verbal direction in a most pleasant fashion.


	5. A Visit

Outside of the middle of winter, the little cemetery in Godric's Hollow was quite a pretty place. The grass was carefully tended and immaculately trimmed back along the sides of the little paths that led around the resting places of the Hollow's past residents. The paths, which were really just rows of light-coloured gravel, wide enough for two people to walk abreast, were loosely bordered by rows of nasturtiums in cream and dark red, which had burst into bloom about two months earlier as the last cold snap of the winter had finally been conquered by the vernal equinox. Now, the little flowers danced from side to side under the evening sun in a warm and gentle May breeze, occasionally brushing up against one young man's trouser leg as he made his way up the main path from the cemetery's entrance. His trouser leg was not the only place in which one could find flowers on his person, for he held a pair of red roses in his hand.

He walked sedately but with the air of one who knows exactly where he is going, having traced this particular route many times before. About halfway along the path, he turned abruptly and continued his walk down one of the smaller paths that took him between two rows of headstones. Finally, he stopped in front of a fairly simple stone, on which two names were engraved, and knelt on the grass. Pushed into the ground next to the stone was a small glass tube in a metal frame, and it was into this that he carefully placed the two roses. Despite knowing that the wind would play with the flowers as it pleased, he fussed with the arrangement of the roses for a minute or two before finally resting his hands on his knees.

"Mum," he murmured. "Dad." He gave a quiet sigh. "This is one of those times I really wish you were here."

"We are, darling;" the redheaded woman sitting on top of the headstone replied, not for the first time, "you just don't know it."

Lily Potter and her husband sat side-by-side in midair, just above the stone that marked the spot where their bodies had been buried more than a decade earlier, swinging their feet from time to time as they looked down at their son, who remained completely unaware of them. James patted his wife's hand.

"Sometimes I think he does," he said. "Oddly enough, it's never while he's here."

"He does try to take good care of us all the same, though, doesn't he?" said Lily. She gently nudged one of the roses in the little glass tube with her foot, knowing very well that it would produce no effect. To herself and to James, she seemed quite solid, but they existed on a plane that was almost completely separate from the one on which their son walked, and their interaction with his world was frustratingly limited. Her foot swung through the soft, red petals without jolting the flower at all. "I still feel awful for missing his last visit."

She still remembered the guilt that she had felt when she had visited her gravesite in early December, only to find that the headstone had been cleared of loose snow, clearly by a gloved hand, and that a small Christmas wreath had been placed on the snow between her body and her husband's. It was simple enough for James and Lily to observe the goings-on in the little house in Godric's Hollow that had briefly belonged to them and put together a coherent image of their son's life, but she still tried to be present whenever he made the effort to visit their grave. It was only then, after all, that he spoke directly to them. Her release from the earthly plane had certainly given her perspective and tempered her emotions as the years had passed, but her devotion to her son transcended the rift between their worlds. She fully intended to be present when he had need of her, whether he was aware of her or not, until they were finally reunited.

Her husband gave her hand another supportive pat.

"Quiet, Lil," he said, not unkindly, "or we'll miss this one as well."

"Right," she said, turning her attention back to her son, who was drumming his fingers on his knees in silence.

"I wish you could give me some advice," he finally said to the two engraved names, somewhere around his parents' feet. "Especially you, Dad," he added to one name. His lips quirked momentarily as he assured the other, "Not that I wouldn't listen to you, of course, Mum."

"I know, love," Lily murmured, returning his smile.

"It's just…" Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I'm so afraid, and there's no one I can turn to. Not Ron, not Arthur… Not even Hermione, for once."

"That's true," said James, "where is Hermione? It's been awhile since he's visited without her."

Lily frowned.

"I hope they aren't having trouble," she said. "She's so good for him. Things between them have seemed fine, though, haven't they?"

"As far as I can tell, our boy's still head over heels in love," James agreed. "Of course, we haven't been back in a little while," he added, "and all couples have rough patches from time to time."

Lily frowned again and folded her hands.

"I won't be able to forgive myself if we've missed out again," she said.

"It's not that I don't _want_ to, of course," Harry was saying. "I do, very much. I must have convinced myself to do it a hundred times over the past few weeks, but every time I think I've finally worked up to it, I can't seem to go through with it."

"Merlin's beard, we've missed it," James muttered. "Go through with what, son?"

Harry, of course, did not hear the question.

"Some Gryffindor I am, eh?" he asked, managing another small smile. "I just wish you could be here to give me an idea of how to do it properly, or at least a kick in the pants to get me to just do it already, properly or not." He gave another sigh. "Anyway," he said, "Hermione's going to miss me if I stay much longer. I'm supposed to be out buying rolls for dinner." Reaching out, he touched his fingers to a spot on the stone between his parents' names, which was still warm from the day's sun. "I love you," he murmured. "I'll try to come back soon."

With that, he pushed himself up from the grass and began the walk out of the cemetery, unknowingly leaving his frustrated parents behind him.

"Well, come on, then," Lily said, tugging her husband along behind her as she pushed away from the headstone. It was easy for her to catch up with Harry. Since she and James could not make contact with their son's world, they could not achieve traction on the ground and could, therefore, not walk in the earthly fashion. Instead, they moved around using a sort of gliding motion, with their feet hovering just a few centimetres above the ground. They could achieve more impressive speeds and heights if they cared to, given their extensive experience in the afterlife, but they tended to stick close to Harry when they visited him, not wanting to miss anything. They followed him to the cemetery gate, through which they were able to pass while he let himself out, and then out onto the main street of the little town. They passed the quiet, locked church, as well as several small Muggle shops and businesses, before Harry turned in at the door of a building that, if his two companions had still been gifted with all of their earthly senses, would have smelled incredible and quickly informed them of its purpose. Once they had followed him inside, their location became clear: it was a small bakery, empty except for Harry and a portly older man in a flour-spotted white apron, who poked his head around a doorway behind the counter when Harry stepped inside.

"Evening," the man in the apron said to Harry.

"Evening," Harry replied. "I know it's a little late, but would you happen to have any rolls left?"

"Sorry, no," the portly man said, and Harry looked dismayed. What was he to tell Hermione, after all, when he had been gone for so long and would have nothing to show for it? The baker cocked his head at Harry and, seemingly after a moment's thought, added, "But, if you're willing to wait a minute, I've got tomorrow's batch on its way out of the oven."

Harry's face lit up with an almost comical degree of relief.

"Really?" he said.

"Yeah, yeah," the baker said, waving a hand as he moved back to the kitchen from which he had emerged. Harry could see him through a rectangular opening in the wall. "Technically, I'm closing right about now, but, hey, you're a good customer. Wouldn't be surprised if you make up about a quarter of my business."

Harry chuckled.

"It's my girlfriend," he said. "She loves just about everything you sell."

"Well, tell her thank you from me, then," said the baker. "The baking business is suffering around here this days, you know, what with those huge supermarkets opening closer and closer to Godric's Hollow. It's an infestation, I swear it," he declared as he set a tray on a countertop with an audible clatter.

Harry, who had no hard feelings towards supermarkets, nodded in a sympathetic sort of way for the older man's benefit. Finally, after a few minutes, the baker emerged from the kitchen with a dozen rolls, still warm, in a paper bag, which Harry gratefully accepted. He pulled a small stack of Muggle notes out of his pocket and handed the man a little more than was necessary.

"Keep the change," he called behind himself as he left, "and thank you!"

Lily and James were able to take fuller advantage of their powers of movement as Harry quickened his pace on the way home. Finally, they glided into their son's living room as he shut the front door behind him and toed off his shoes. Hermione was on the couch with a book in her hands when they arrived, but she set it aside and got up to greet Harry once he had straightened up again.

"It's about time," she said as she pecked him on the cheek. "I was starting to worry."

"Sorry," said Harry. He held up the paper bag. "The baker was out of rolls. I had to wait for a fresh batch." Abruptly, his expression changed as he grinned and reached up to swipe a thumb against the corner of Hermione's mouth. "You've been stealing soup in my absence."

"Damn," she muttered, hastily wiping her mouth with the back of one hand. "Well, I'm hungry," she added sheepishly when he continued to look amused, "and you made me sit in a house that smells like your cooking for almost an hour. That's just cruel."

He laughed softly and touched his lips to hers.

"What did you think?" he asked. "Good?"

"Delicious," she said. "This one's definitely worth keeping, and I'd like a proper bowl of it sometime before midnight, if it's not too much trouble."

He laughed again and followed her into the kitchen, where she was finally able to sit down at their small table with her long-awaited bowl of soup. She looked pleasantly surprised when she accepted the roll he offered her to accompany it.

"Wow, still warm," she said. "What did you do, run home?"

"Just about," Harry said, not entirely jokingly. "What's the point of waiting for freshly baked rolls if they aren't warm by the time you eat them?"

She swallowed a bite of the roll in question and smiled at him.

"You know, Harry, you really do spoil me," she said. "Left to my own devices, I'd be eating salad or boxed pasta, not good soup and fresh bread."

He shrugged.

"Left to my own devices," he said, "I would probably still be sleeping on a bare mattress in a room without any fresh paint on the walls. I'd say it comes out pretty even in the end. Besides," he added with a grin, patting her hand on the table, "even if I do spoil you, it isn't nearly enough."

She coloured a pretty shade of pink.

"Oh, stop," she said, busying herself with her soup.

Lily, still hovering near the doorway, smiled with a combination of amusement and relief.

"They seem all right," she said to James. "Just having a quiet evening at home."

James nodded.

"I wonder what he's so worried about, then?" he said. "Maybe we've jumped to conclusions here, Lil."

"Maybe… Hang on, where's he off to?" she said as Harry excused himself from the table. He made his way to the staircase, not knowing that his parents were in tow, and climbed up to his bedroom, where he made a beeline for his nightstand and opened a drawer.

"Ah," James said with a slow smile when Harry plunked himself down on the side of his bed, turning a small black box over and over in his hands, "that certainly clears things up for us, doesn't it?"

"Oh, my," said Lily. Accompanied by her husband, she moved to join her son where he sat. "I suppose that's why he couldn't go to Hermione for help."

Harry dragged his hands through his already ruffled hair, clearly struggling with some inner battle. James smiled sympathetically.

"That's how it goes, isn't it, son?" he murmured. "You can take on a Basilisk at the age of twelve, but you can't muster up the courage to ask the girl you love to marry you."

Finally, Harry heaved a frustrated sigh and carefully laid the box back into its drawer.

"Too soon," he murmured as he slid the drawer closed. "Still too soon."

"No, it isn't!" Lily exclaimed when Harry pushed himself up from the bed. Forgetting herself, she reached out for him and was quickly reminded of a certain major issue when her hand swung through his ineffectively. She groaned and sat back as Harry's footsteps sounded on the stairs. "Godric, that's frustrating. She'll say yes, you know," she called after her son.

James squeezed his wife's shoulder reassuringly.

"He'll ask her," he said, "in his own time. We Potters always do."

Lily smiled.

"And you Potters always take too long," she said. James chuckled.

"Maybe we do," he agreed, "but that's only because we're so afraid of losing you by doing something wrong."

"It would take a lot for him to lose her," said Lily. She took her husband's hand and pulled him along after her as she glided back downstairs, where they found the young couple quietly talking about that day's work. "She's only been waiting for him for, what, seven, eight years?"

James chuckled again.

"Darling, these things seem a lot more obvious to us than they do to them," he reminded her, looking at the young man and woman at the table. "We have such a huge advantage when it comes to perspective. It's a shame they can't see all the things we do, know all the things we know. They'd have a much easier time finding their way to each other."

"Amen to that," Lily agreed. "They both want the same thing, but neither of them wants to say anything about it, because they both think the other would be spooked if it were brought up." She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "The living make the simplest things so complicated, don't they? Then again," she mused, "I suppose that's all part of the experience, finding your way, picking around all of the pitfalls and landmines. Imagine how boring our life would have been if we'd both just said everything we wanted to," she said with a grin up at her husband. "Merlin, we probably would have been married by fifth year."

"And we'd have had Harry by seventh," James agreed.

"Oh, Merlin," said Lily. "Can you imagine?" She shook her head. "Maybe there's something to be said for complications. Still, I hope he asks her soon," she said with a fond glance at the young couple. "It would be lovely to see this house with a family in it again."

"I'm sure they'll get there, in time," said James. He put his arm around his wife's waist. "Come on, then; let's leave them to it. Sirius mentioned something about haunting Hogsmeade tonight."

Lily rolled her eyes again.

"When is he going to realize that he isn't a ghost or a poltergeist?" she wondered aloud. "We don't haunt. We travel, we visit, but we don't haunt. Hardly anybody is aware of us, anyway, and it's only for a second or two even when they are."

James chuckled.

"You know Sirius," he said. "If there's a way for us to make them aware, he'll be the first to figure it out. In any case, we haven't been back to Hogsmeade in quite a while. I wonder how much it's changed?"

Chatting softly, they glided out of the little house, content in their understanding of what was troubling their son, and returned to roaming the place they now called home. At the table, absorbed in their own conversation, neither of the others had noticed a thing.


	6. A Question

A/N: So, here it is! I hope that it lives up to what my readers have been hoping for. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Harry woke to the sensation of a breeze blowing across his face from his open bedroom window. June that year had left the little town of Godric's Hollow sagging in the heat, but the nights and mornings were always a little more comfortable than the afternoons, and the breeze that tickled his cheeks was nearly pleasantly cool, though it held hints of the heat that would descend upon the town later in the day.<p>

It was a Sunday, and so the morning was quiet even by Godric's Hollow standards, disturbed by little more than a few cheerful birds and an occasional distant wail as, somewhere, an infant announced to its parents that, despite the early hour, it was time for them to wake. That was, luckily, not an issue for Harry and Hermione, and he smiled at the sight of her peaceful expression in the soft morning sunlight. Even without the aid of his glasses, her proximity to him meant that he could see her fairly clearly. She was still sound asleep, with her head half on his shoulder and half on his chest, and her soft, even breathing near his ear made up ninety percent of everything he could hear in the still morning. That was fine with Harry. It had only been a few weeks since he had finally made the move from the room that had once been his nursery into the master with Hermione, but he had become quite happily accustomed to it very quickly, discovering that, contrary to his concerns, he had no trouble sharing his bed with someone else, and that doing so actually helped him sleep better than he did alone. He had had far fewer nightmares than usual over the past few weeks.

He gave a quiet sigh of pent-up frustration and reached over to carefully tuck a few stray curls behind Hermione's ear. The reduction in his number of sleepless nights was just one more thing that proved that she was good for him, and though they had only been together for a few months, he knew that he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. Oddly, that knowledge seemed to do him little good when it came to actually asking her if the prospect of being together for so long appealed to her as much as it did to him. The engagement ring intended for her was still hidden in his nightstand, carefully tucked under a small pile of envelopes so that she would not catch a glimpse of it if he needed to open the drawer while she was in the room, and it seemed to emit some sort of magnetic field whenever he was around it. He could not forget about it. He wanted to ask her, so badly that it sometimes made his chest literally ache, but he wanted to do it in just the right way and at just the right time. The problem was that he did not know what way or time was right.

"I can feel you staring, you know," she murmured sleepily. She reached up to rub her eyes with her thumb and forefinger before peering over him at the clock. "Oh, Harry, it's barely six," she complained, snuggling back against his chest.

He shifted a little to hold her more comfortably and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You're awake awfully early," she said. She looked up at him. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said. "Go back to sleep, 'Mione. I won't wake you up again."

"I'm already awake, and something is the matter," she said. She gently pushed herself off of his chest to rest on the pillow beside his so that she could look at him properly. "Something's been bothering you for weeks. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Honestly, no, I figured you would," he admitted. Sensing that there was no chance of convincing her to go back to sleep, he reached out and picked his glasses up from the nightstand. He did not want to have this conversation with a blur. "I was kind of hoping to get it past you for as long as possible, though."

She frowned.

"Hey," she said, putting a hand on his arm, "since when do you keep secrets from me?"

Harry quickly put his hand on top of the one on his arm, realizing that he had said something very wrong.

"I don't, usually. Really, I don't," he said. "This is the first time in a very, very long while, and believe me, I've felt really bad about it the whole time."

Her frown did not disappear entirely.

"Well," she said, "if you've felt so bad, why haven't you just talked to me about it? I would think that, by now, you would know that you can tell me anything." When he remained silent, she squeezed his arm gently. "Are you worried I'll be angry?"

"No," he said, "not at all. I guess I'm worried you'll be… disappointed."

Hermione's expression relaxed.

"Harry," she said, "there's not much you could do that would make me feel disappointed in you."

"It's not that I think you'll be disappointed in me, exactly, it's just…" He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a slow breath, trying to decide how to phrase what he needed to say so that he would not give away his secret. "If you only had one chance to do something really important, you would want to make sure you did it as well as you possibly could, wouldn't you?"

"Of course," she said. "Is it something at work, then?"

"No," he murmured. He shook his head. "I don't know how to put it into words just yet. I need to think about it some more."

She pursed her lips for a moment before she finally gave him a small, comforting smile and said, "Well, I suppose I can't complain about you thinking before you say something, after all the times I've reminded you to do it." She shifted on the bed to lay her head on his chest again. "You'll tell me, won't you, if you need my help?"

He nodded and put his arms around her, knowing that this was one of the very few times when he could not ask Hermione for help, no matter how badly he sometimes wished he could. For any other problem, he could have gone to her from the very beginning and sought out her advice, and she would have done everything in her power to help him pull through his troubles, just as he would do for her if the situation were reversed.

He smiled despite his worries and reached up to run his fingers through her hair, hoping to relax her enough to help her go back to sleep. There was nothing, he thought, that this woman would not do to stand by him when he needed her. The scars that she bore from head to toe were clear proof of that. He pecked her on the forehead again.

"I love you," he murmured. He felt her smile against his chest.

"I love you, too," she replied.

He knew it, and he wondered if he would ever cease to marvel at it. Through the years, he had fought with her, snapped at her simply because he was in a petulant sort of mood and she was conveniently close by, and dragged her within inches of her death, sometimes due to little except for his own stupidity, and yet she loved him, and had for quite a long time before they had finally taken their friendship to another level a few short months earlier. He had no idea of what he had done to deserve her love, but he intended to do everything in his power to make sure that he never lost it, and to show her in every way he could that she was loved in return, even when words failed him.

Again, he thought of the little black box that sat only a foot or two away, holding the tiny object that could make such a huge difference in Harry and Hermione's lives, if only he could work up the courage to reach for it.

Harry blinked and abruptly stopped running his fingers through his girlfriend's hair. What better way was there for him to show her that he loved her, he wondered, than to ask her to be with him for the rest of her life? Especially at a moment such as the one he found himself enjoying, a moment when they were simply together, quiet and content, holding each other while they rested in the early hours of the morning?

Slowly, a smile spread across his face, and he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was still anxious about finally asking her the question that he had wanted to ask for months, but he felt, in his heart, that he had finally found the right time and place—or, rather, that they had found him.

"'Mione?" he said.

"Mm?" she replied without moving.

"Are you awake?" he asked, amused.

"Mm, barely," she said. She reached up to rub her eyes again. "You know I doze off in an instant when you do that," she said, tipping her head towards his hand, which still rested gently against the back of her neck. Finally, after clearing the sleep from her eyes, she looked up at him. "What is it?"

He smiled.

"I've finished thinking," he said. Her lips quirked.

"That was awfully quick," she replied.

"Actually, no, it wasn't," he said. "I've been thinking about this one thing for months now."

"Have you? It must be important," she said.

"It is," he said a tad more seriously, "very, and it's actually about you."

Predictably, she blinked, the smile fading from her lips.

"Me?" she said. "What about me?"

"Don't worry;" he said quickly, "it isn't anything bad. I just want to talk to you about something."

"Oh," she said, looking relieved. "Well, all right. What is it you want to talk about?"

"Well, us," he said, bringing a touch of worry back to her expression.

"What about us?"

He hesitated for a moment, not sure of what to tell her. He had not prepared anything, not having expected to take the plunge that morning.

"I love you," he finally said. Her lips quirked again.

"Yes, you've just told me that," she said. "I love you, too."

"I know," he said. He reached for one of her hands and squeezed it. "I'm a lucky man."

"You bet," she said. He chuckled.

"And when someone's been as lucky as I have and ended up with something this good, he'd be an idiot to risk losing it, wouldn't he?" he said. Her smile shrank in confusion as she gently pushed away from him again, returning to her pillow so that they could be face-to-face.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"What I mean is, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Hermione," he said, squeezing her hand again. "And I've been an idiot these past few months." Reaching out, he silently Summoned the little black box from his nightstand and caught it as it appeared. He smiled when he heard a sharp intake of breath from Hermione, and he sat up, not wanting to ask the most important question of his life while lying down. She followed him, looking a little taken aback. "I've been carrying this around," he continued, "wanting to give it to you, and I must have started this conversation in my head a thousand times, but I was so afraid that you would be disappointed by how I asked you that I couldn't manage to try. Then, just now, it occurred to me that I didn't need to ask you in some dramatic way, or at a certain time, or anything like that, because all I wanted was to show you that I love you. So…"

Leaning forward, he gave her a firm kiss, to which she was too surprised to respond.

"I do love you, Hermione, more than anything," he said when they separated, "and I'd really like to be able to spend the rest of my life with you, if you would do me the honour of spending the rest of yours with me." His hands shook a little as he opened the box in his hands and turned it towards her, but he smiled as he finally asked, "Will you marry me?"

There was a moment's pause, during which she looked from him to the ring and back again several times, as though she did not understand what was happening. Then, slowly, a smile touched her lips.

"I…" she said, and he caught a glimpse of a sheen in her eyes for an instant before she suddenly threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off-balance as she hugged him fiercely. "Oh, Godric, Harry, yes," she said. "Yes, of course I will."

Immensely relieved, he put his arms around her and firmly returned her embrace, feeling tears at the back of his eyes. Finally, finally, he had managed to ask her, and her answer had been everything for which he had hoped over the past few months. The woman in his arms, the woman he loved, had agreed to become his wife.

Around him, it seemed as though the house itself sighed with contented relief. But that was probably just his imagination.


	7. Crossing Planes

The August evening, while cooler than that summer's previous evenings, was still warm enough for Harry to be quite comfortable in a t-shirt, especially since he found himself bent over a steaming cauldron, carefully watching its contents for any sign of a mistake in his brewing. His potion-making skills had improved considerably since his school days, given his profession, and he was usually able to prepare a variety of common Healing potions without even consulting written instructions, but he was worried about Hermione, and he did not want to run the risk of ruining the potion in front of him due to his nerves. She needed a dose of it, and soon, and he could not risk having to start again.

Upstairs, in their bed, Hermione shivered despite the warmth of the evening. The bright spots of colour on her cheeks gave away the cause of her behaviour: her internal thermometer had gone haywire, telling her that she was cold when she was actually dangerously hot. She covered her mouth with one hand to muffle a cough, which was followed by a soft groan. Her entire body ached with illness, and her chest hurt particularly badly from coughing. She was suffering from a nasty case of dragon fever, a normal childhood illness for most witches and wizards. The problem was that Hermione, being Muggle-born and consequently raised outside of the magical world, had never been exposed to it in her youth. Much like Muggle chicken pox, dragon fever was more difficult for adults to fight off than it was for children, which meant that Hermione's temperature remained stubbornly over the one-hundred degree mark, several degrees higher than it would be in a child. Luckily, Harry, though he had been raised as a Muggle as well, had been given the costly immunization against the illness as part of his Healer training, and so he was able to care for her without catching the fever.

Hermione rolled over onto her side and pressed her face against a cooler spot on her pillow. She knew that Harry was doing everything he could to help her fight off the virus, which, as its name suggested, had once been the bane of only one species before it had mutated and spread to humans several hundred years earlier, but she still felt awful. At the onset of her illness, when her fever had been a mere annoyance, she had privately but vehemently cursed the younger siblings of the steady flow of Hogwarts students that moved into and out of Flourish and Blott's each day for being disease-carrying little vermin that ought to be forcibly sanitized before being allowed anywhere near other people. Now, on the third miserable day of her battle with the fever, she felt almost too weak to get out of bed, much less curse anyone. All she could do was lie still, study the changing patterns of shadows on the wall, and try to rest, as Harry had instructed.

Another bout of coughing came on abruptly, and she closed her eyes for a moment once it had passed, willing the burning sensation in her chest to go away. Eventually, it abated somewhat, though she still felt as though someone had taken a battering ram to her ribs. She opened her eyes and promptly blinked, sure that a combination of fever and tiredness was playing tricks on her. When she had blinked several times to be sure that her vision was clear, however, the source of her confusion remained: a pretty, redheaded woman stood at the end of the bed, smiling softly at her. Hermione was surprised to discover that she felt no fear upon studying the apparition.

"I know you," she said to the woman. "You're Harry's mother, aren't you?"

The woman's smile brightened significantly as she moved closer to the head of the bed and sat down. Hermione noticed that, although the figure appeared human, her feet remained still when she moved, and there was visible space between her and the bed on which she seemed to sit.

"Yes," the woman said, "I'm Lily. Oh, I so hoped you would be able to see me." She cocked her head to one side. "You do hear me, don't you? It would be awfully embarrassing if I were to sit here talking to myself."

Hermione nodded to show that she could, indeed, hear. Suddenly, she let out an almost frustrated sigh.

"For Heaven's sake, I'm not dead, am I?" she asked. "I mean, for a moment, I thought that last bit of coughing might do it, but I thought I was just being dramatic."

Lily chuckled.

"No, dear, you aren't dead," she assured Hermione. "You're just a bit closer to my plane than usual, that's all. I popped in on the off chance that you might actually be able to see me for once."

A smile touched Hermione's pale face.

"So you do come around from time to time, then?" she asked. "I'm not losing my mind?"

"James and I visit every now and again, yes," said Lily. "We like to keep an eye on the place, and on Harry. Speaking of which," she said, moving a little closer to Hermione on the bed. "I hear you're going to marry my son."

If Hermione had not already been so feverish, a blush would have shown on her cheeks. As it was, they were too red for anyone to notice.

"Well," she said, "he asked me, and I said I would."

Lily's expression softened.

"Don't worry, Hermione;" she said, "I think you're a wonderful match for Harry. James and I were both over the moon when he finally worked up the courage to ask you."

"Were you?" said Hermione.

"Of course." Lily smiled again. "We've been watching the two of you for a long time, at least as best we could. The wards around Hogwarts made it difficult, you understand. Magic as strong as that tends to stretch across a few planes, when it's done properly."

Hermione nodded as though she understood, even though her fevered brain was in no state to think about that new piece of information.

"We've always been able to get the gist of things, though," Lily continued, "and it's been clear to us that you're good for him. The Potter men always need seem to need someone to keep them balanced," she said. "I know that for a fact. Otherwise, they tend to just-"

"March off half-cocked with a wand in hand?" Hermione supplied. Lily laughed, but the effort of speaking made Hermione cough again. When she had finished, Lily looked at her a little worriedly.

"Is this too much?" she asked. "I don't mean to be rude. It's been so long since I've been ill that I don't remember what it's like."

Hermione shook her head and reached for the glass of water that Harry had left on her nightstand. There was no way she was passing up an opportunity like this, ill or not.

"I'm fine," she said in between sips of water, which helped clear her throat and ease the burning in her chest. "It's no walk in the park, of course, but I'll manage. Harry says it'll probably be a few more days, at best." She smiled as she set the glass back down. "He's good at what he does."

Lily nodded.

"We're very proud of him," she said. "I'm sure we weren't the only ones who were relieved when he took this route instead of heading into the Ministry. Not that Auror training isn't a perfectly respectable thing to do, of course," she added. "We were just happy to see him take himself out of the line of fire, you understand, after so many years."

Hermione was not offended in the least, having felt the same way when Harry had told her about his intentions to become a Healer instead of joining her in Auror training, as everyone had expected he would. Chasing down the Darkest wizard of them all for seven years had caused Harry more than enough trouble for a lifetime, and she had been glad to see him make a healthier choice for himself by not walking straight into several more decades of it, despite the pressure from his friends, acquaintances, and the Ministry itself.

"It was a relief for me, too," she agreed. "It's good to not have to worry about whether he's going to come home every day, or whether he'll still have all of his body parts when he does." Her lips quirked momentarily. "He doesn't say anything about it, but I think, now that we're together, he's happy I didn't finish out training. He's not overt about it, but I think he does worry about me."

"He does," said Lily. "You can be sure of that. All he wants, really, is to know that you're happy. He fussed with that ring for months before he finally asked you," she said, gesturing to the band around Hermione's finger. "It was driving me mad. I worried that he was going to lose you if he kept beating around the bush."

Hermione smiled and shook her head.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, "no matter how long it takes him to figure things out. He tries hard, and I do love him, after all," she said, blushing a little again.

"I know," said Lily. "That's been clear to us for quite a long time. It was really just a question of whether you two would find your way to each other or not. Sadly, not everyone does, you know. We're very glad that you did. After all Harry's been through… Well, we worried that he wouldn't find someone who could understand it, could support him the way he needs to be supported, whether he'll admit it or not. Who better than someone who's been through all of it with him, who truly knows what it was like?" She reached over to lay her hand on top of Hermione's as best she could. No actual contact was made, but Hermione would have sworn she felt a slight coolness on the back of her hand, even with her fever still raging. "You'll take good care of my son, won't you?" Lily asked, though she knew that Hermione already did. She had watched her take Harry into her arms during his rougher moments, had listened to her comforting him as they walked through the cemetery around that difficult part of the springtime, when both of them remembered the horrors of the Battle at Hogwarts particularly vividly. Still, she wanted to hear the words from the younger woman's mouth, to know that Hermione really was committed to Harry for better or for worse.

"Of course," Hermione assured her. "Always."

"Thank you," said Lily. "There isn't much that weighs on me anymore, not after all these years, but I still want what's best for my little boy. I have a feeling that's you. But I can see you're getting tired," she added.

"I'm all right," Hermione said automatically, but Lily shook her head.

"It's best that I leave you alone for now," she said. "You need some rest. I would feel awful if I kept you ill longer than you needed to be."

"Will I ever be able to see you again?" Hermione asked, hating that she had to be fevered and therefore not thinking completely straight in order to be able to have a conversation with the woman whose presence she so frequently felt. "I'm afraid I'm going to think of hundreds of things I would have liked to say the minute I'm well again."

Lily smiled reassuringly.

"Well, if you do, you can always talk to me if you notice I'm around. I do hear you, you know, even when you can't see me. But I expect you'll see me again someday, yes. Maybe in a few years, if you aren't this ill again in the meantime."

"What's in a few years?" Hermione asked. "Am I due for the plague or something?"

Lily chuckled.

"I don't think so," she assured the younger woman. "It's just that I can't speak for you and Harry when it comes to such an important choice." Seeing that Hermione was still confused, she winked at her and explained, "Get to work giving us a few grandchildren and I expect you'll see plenty of me."

"Oh," Hermione said softly, feeling shy all of a sudden. She had read that pregnant women were particularly sensitive to the paranormal, but children were not something that she and Harry had seriously discussed yet. She knew that he wanted a family someday, as she did, but they were focussed on their upcoming marriage for the moment. Knowing that there were people around her who were waiting for Harry and her to take that step made her feel a little pressured.

"There's plenty of time, dear," Lily assured her gently, as though she could read Hermione's thoughts. "The years seem much longer to you living ones than they do to us. We'll be around from time to time, in any case, even if you don't notice us."

"It has been nice to be able to actually see you for once, though," said Hermione. "Assuming I really haven't lost my mind."

Lily chuckled again.

"You're quite sane; don't worry."

"That's good to know," said Hermione. She raised an eyebrow at her visitor. "Of course, sane or not, I could just be imagining you right now, couldn't I?"

Lily shrugged.

"Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do to prove otherwise if you truly believe that," she said. "I can't really do anything impressive on your plane." She passed her hand through the bed a few times to illustrate her difficulty before she smiled again. "But I can tell you that my son is on his way up the stairs right about now."

As though on cue, a soft knock sounded on the door before it opened, revealing Harry, who carried a vial of bright blue potion in one hand.

"Hey," he said as he moved to sit on the unoccupied side of the bed, "Is everything all right up here?" He seemed completely unaware of the redheaded woman sitting just a few feet away from him, on his fiancée's other side. "I thought I heard your voice on the way up. Were you trying to call me?"

Hermione shook her head.

"No, everything's all right," she said. She smiled at him. "Did you know your mother's here?"

Harry blinked.

"What was that, love?" he asked gently.

"Your mother's here," she said. She mustered the strength to lift one arm so that she could gesture to Lily. "Just there."

Harry's gaze followed her outstretched arm. For the briefest of moments, two pairs of almost identical green eyes met, but Harry saw nothing. Lily offered Hermione a reassuring smile.

"You tried," she said. Hermione frowned.

"You don't see her?" she asked Harry.

"No, I don't," he said. He looked dismayed as he felt her forehead. "Sweetheart, you're hallucinating."

"I am not," she protested. Harry had the disturbing experience of watching his fiancée stare into empty space for several seconds before he gently moved his hand to her cheek, bringing her attention back to him.

"It's okay," he assured her. "It'll be all right. You're just a little too hot, that's all." He pressed the vial of potion into her hand. "Take this for me, okay? You'll feel better."

The prospect of feeling better was very attractive, and Hermione trusted Harry with her health enough to not question what he gave her. She took the potion without complaint, but firmly added, "I am not hallucinating," as she gave him the empty vial. "She's sitting right there," she insisted.

Looking worried, Harry kissed her forehead and carefully guided her back against her pillows. He managed a smile for her.

"Don't get all worked up, baby," he said, pushing a few stray curls away from her face. "I believe you."

"No, you don't," she muttered. "You're only saying that because I'm- Hey," she said, rubbing her eyes, "what was in that potion?"

Harry reached over to pick up the cloth that sat in a bowl of cool water on her nightstand.

"Something to try to bring your fever down," he said as he wrung it out, "and something to help you sleep."

"Help me?" she said. "You're going to knock me out. Ooh," she sighed appreciatively as he wiped her face with the cool cloth. Seeing a hint of a triumphant grin on his lips, she narrowed her tired eyes at him. "I'm still angry at you, you know," she muttered. She turned her gaze to Lily, who looked rather amused by the couple's exchange. "I don't mean to cut our conversation short, but your son is very rudely drugging me."

Lily laughed.

"That's all right," she said. "I've enjoyed talking with you, but you do need to rest to get well. I'll be here when you wake up, whether you see me or not." She got up and disappeared through the open door, leaving the couple alone. Hermione looked at Harry and found that he was still staring at the doorway, having followed her gaze.

"I'm not mad," she said firmly, bringing his attention back to him. "I know you're worried that I am, but I'm not, and your mother agrees with me." She stifled a yawn with one hand as Harry continued to carefully wipe her hot face with the cloth.

"I don't think you're mad," he said. "You're just very ill and a little confused. Sleep, love," he added more gently when she yawned again, struggling to fight the effects of the potion he had given her. He smiled. "Being stubborn won't make you well again."

"Watch me," she muttered. It was only a few minutes before she nodded off, content in the knowledge that she was completely sane and that her suspicions about the old house that she had made her home had been correct all along. Whether Harry chose to believe her or not, they were not alone in Godric's Hollow.


	8. Making Headlines

A/N: I know, I know, I haven't published anything in forever and a day, and I do apologize for that. I've been poking at my writing all this time, but suffering from both a wandering mind and writers' block, and so nothing worth publishing has appeared on the page for a while. However, an encouraging PM came to me just as I was considering getting back into serious writing, and this is the welcome result of those few heartening words. I hope you enjoy!

Also, this was proofread by the author herself in a bit of a hurry as I tried to get it published as soon as possible, and so I hope there aren't too many issues, but if there are, please feel free to point them out!

* * *

><p>Reaching into his breast pocket, Harry extracted the handkerchief that was folded there and mopped his brow for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. He felt somewhat guilty for doing it, as Molly had had to straighten the handkerchief as many times as he had taken it out, but he supposed that having a slightly wrinkled and crooked handkerchief tucked into his pocket was still better than attending his own wedding looking like he had just finished running a marathon.<p>

He tugged at his tie, which felt too tight yet again, even though he had checked it in a mirror again and again and assured himself that it was positioned correctly, and then swallowed with some difficulty. His entire suit felt a little too snug, even though he knew that it was fitted just fine, and he considered taking his jacket off, at least, just for a few minutes, but he knew that he was expected outside, and it would not do to keep everyone waiting while he calmed himself down. Particularly Hermione, who was probably going through a similar fit of nerves—he hoped—wherever she was.

The Burrow was quiet, and he wondered where everyone had gone as he leaned against the kitchen wall and glanced out the window. Everything seemed to be ready outside, from the large white tent to the rows of white chairs set up on the lawn for the ceremony, but the lawn, too, was deserted. He longed for one of his groomsmen, anyone, to find him and tell him what was happening, but he seemed to be quite alone.

Just as he finished the thought, he was relieved to hear footsteps on the stairs, and he nearly ran over to hug Ron as he appeared in the kitchen, his tie already a little crooked from being tugged on as he protested being forced into a suit for the ceremony.

"Ron," said Harry, "thank God. Where is everyone?"

"Wake up, Harry," Ron replied.

Harry blinked, confused.

"Sorry?" he asked, not sure that he had heard correctly.

"Harry, come on; wake up," said Ron.

Abruptly, Harry became aware that someone was shaking his shoulder. The Burrow and Ron disappeared as he opened his eyes to a sunlit room. He was not at The Burrow at all, he discovered, but lying in his own bed at home, being gently shaken by a warm hand on his bare shoulder.

"Come on, now, Harry. I know you can hear me," Hermione's voice said from behind him.

"Mmph," he managed to mumble in reply as he rolled away from her voice and buried his face in his pillow. He was tired, and his eyes felt gritty from a restless sleep. He had been having the same recurring dream for several weeks, particularly when he was very tired after a long night's work at the hospital, and it always left him a little unsettled when he woke up. "'Mione, 'm sleeping... I was at work until dawn, and it's Saturday." Eyes closed once more, he felt around near his shoulder and took her hand in his, tugging her towards him. "What're you doing up, anyway? 'S too early. Come back to bed."

"Gladly, any other day," she said, and he felt her run the fingers of her free hand through his hair. "I know you're tired, and I'm sorry to wake you, but you really do need to get up and dressed."

"How come?" he asked. He let go of her hand to scrub his own hand over his face as he opened his eyes again and blinked at the blurry, sunlit mass of light, shadows, and colours that was his bedroom when he did not have his glasses. "It really is too early for either of us to be up on a Saturday. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Don't worry. It's just that I think you ought to get out of bed and clean yourself up, because we're probably going to be converged upon in the very near future."

Harry frowned, bewildered.

"Converged upon?" he repeated, rolling over to squint at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Here," she said, and he felt the familiar thin frames of his glasses being pressed into his hand. Hermione's face came into focus as he pushed them on. She had clearly not been up for very long, as her hair was still pulled back into the somewhat messy plait into which she had tied it for the night, and she was still wearing her nightgown under an open robe. "Hello, love," she continued with a small grin. "Anyway, look here. It'll explain everything."

For the first time, Harry noticed something lying next to her on the bed. It looked like a pile of parchment, and, as she picked it up and handed it to him once he had reluctantly pushed himself up from the bed to sit with her, he discovered that that was essentially what it was. It was a copy of the _Daily Prophet_, and he found his eyes immediately drawn to a large picture in the centre of the front page.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," he muttered as he studied it. It was not a particularly well-composed picture, and it had clearly been taken hurriedly at a distance, but it was good enough to serve its purpose. It was of Hermione and him, sitting at what they had thought was a sufficiently out-of-the-way table at Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlour after enjoying a pleasant summer day in Diagon Alley. As he watched, his printed self grinned and reached out to swipe a dab of ice cream off of the end of Hermione's nose with a fingertip, making her roll her eyes at him good-naturedly as she lightly pushed his hand away. The gesture, small as it was, was enough to make her engagement ring visible, justifying the simple but to-the-point headline that shouted out from above the photo: "POTTER TO MARRY SCHOOLMATE SWEETHEART?"

Harry sighed as he put the paper down, not feeling the need to read the article that followed. He generally felt the same way about the majority of the _Prophet_, which he and Hermione continued to receive more out of necessity than actual enjoyment of its content. It was simply the only daily wizarding newspaper, and they did not always have time to sit and listen to the news on the WWN, which they agreed was of better quality but which only played a few times each day.

"'Mione, I'm really sorry," he said, dismayed at the sight of such a simple, happy moment being blown up in black and white and sensationalized in the media. "I should've thought that something like this would happen. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

He wet his lips as an uncomfortable thought occurred to him. He had no fondness for the exposure that he sometimes unwillingly received in the news, but he had long since learned to grin and bear it, knowing that there was simply nothing he could do to stop it as long as the wizarding world maintained its interest in him. Hermione, on the other hand, had a choice in the matter. Given her involvement in Voldemort's downfall, her name was known, but the public saw her and Ron as Harry's sidekicks more than anything else, despite his attempts to convince everyone that they had played an equally important role in the whole undertaking, and so he was sure that she could easily avoid any unwanted attention as long as she refrained from doing anything especially public and scandalous. They had lived a fairly quiet and secluded life in Godric's Hollow so far, familiarizing themselves with the ins and outs of the little town and mingling with the Muggle townspeople, but he knew that they could not confine themselves to the house and its immediate surroundings forever. Godric's Hollow was only so big, and they would both want to and have to venture out on occasion. Would Hermione really be willing to sacrifice her chance at a life with a normal degree of privacy?

"But," he continued slowly, "I mean, the fact is that this sort of thing is probably going to happen more often than I'd like, no matter what I do, and... I really should have thought of this sooner, but... Well, are you going to be okay with that?"

"Well, in all honestly, I'm not crazy about it," she said, "but," she added quickly as his face began to fall, "it isn't as though I didn't think about it earlier." She reached out and patted his hand. "I knew what I was getting myself into when I agreed to marry you, Harry, and even though I don't like it much, the fact is that a little unwanted attention is a part of being with you, no matter how much I'm sure we'd both like it not to be. I don't intend to live in hiding forever because some overeager young reporter might nearly wet himself with excitement and sneak close enough to snap a crooked picture of us if we decide to spend the day out. Besides," she continued more lightly, "I'm not embarrassed. Uncomfortable with having our personal time as a couple plastered on the front of the newspaper, yes, but not embarrassed by it. I'm not ashamed because the world knows I'm going to marry the man I love, after all."

Relieved, Harry wrapped an arm around his fiancee's waist and drew her closer to him.

"You're sure you're okay with this?" he asked quietly. "I mean, there's still time to-"

"Hush," she interjected, cutting him off before he could say anything more. "You know I'm not going anywhere, Harry. I love you and I'm going to marry you, and that's final."

She said this so firmly that he could not help but smile at her seriousness. He kissed her cheek.

"Stubborn witch," he murmured fondly. "I love you, too."

"Good, because you're stuck with me now," she said, grinning as she returned the peck on the cheek. "Anyway, I'm sure I'll get used to the media attention, in time," she said. "I don't think I'll ever be happy about it, but I'll get used to it."

"Thank you for that," he said. "Really." He smiled and gave her a light squeeze. "Well, at least we're safe at home, right? The _Prophet _has no idea where we live, though I'm sure that's not for lack of trying."

She returned his smile, but, to his surprise, shook her head slightly.

"You're not quite awake yet, are you?" she mused. "You're forgetting something very important."

"What's that?"

"The fact that, while the _Prophet _might not know where we live, there are certain people who do, namely a small army of Weasleys and Lupins who also get the morning paper."

Harry felt himself go a little pale.

"Oh," he said.

"And who we haven't yet told that we're engaged," Hermione continued.

"Oh," he said.

"And who are, therefore, very likely to be rather surprised by today's headline."

"Right."

"And who will, I'm sure, be trooping up the drive within the hour, which is why you should really get out of bed and at least get dressed, because you're in no state to be welcoming guests at the moment," she finished, tousling his already thoroughly mussed hair to illustrate her point as she got up from the bed and went over to the closet to choose her own clothing. "Not that I can say anything better about myself, of course," she added in a mumble, more to herself than to him, as, with a small pile of clothes balanced on one arm, she reached back with her other hand to check on the condition of her plait, which was still intact but riddled with flyaway curls. "I hope I at least have time to brush my teeth," she said as she walked over to the window and studied the ground below. She surprised him by chuckling as she shook her head.

"Oh, no," she said.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Here they come already," she explained. "And I'm not sure that they could make themselves any more conspicuous."

Resigned to having to get out of bed, Harry pushed himself up from the mattress and joined her at the window. Sure enough, a knot of people, many with flaming red hair, was emerging from behind the plump little evergreen tree that Harry and Hermione liked to use as a safe, well-hidden Apparation point. Harry noticed that Remus, Tonks, and their younger friends had had the presence of mind to put on Muggle clothes, but Molly and Arthur, it seemed, had not considered their surroundings in their excitement over the morning paper, and both had chosen to wear long, black cloaks that billowed behind them as Molly led the charge towards the house, forcing Arthur to maintain a brisk pace to keep up with her.

"I do wish they would have given us a little more time," Hermione said as she set her clothes back down on the bed and settled for tying her robe closed. "Seems I won't even manage to brush my teeth after all. Hurry, Harry, and get yourself a shirt, at the very least. I'll hold them off downstairs until you're ready. Don't even think about getting back into that bed," she added as she headed for the bedroom door, and he quickly averted his gaze from the bed in question, at which he had been looking longingly. She pointed a warning finger at him from the doorway. "You're not abandoning me in the face of a Weasley invasion, mister, or you can forget this wedding of ours right now," she informed him, but one corner of her mouth could not be forced into a serious expression and quirked up tellingly, betraying the fact that, rushed and unprepared as he was sure she felt, she was at least a little pleased by their friends' reaction to the news of their engagement.

"Yes, dear," Harry mumbled to the now-empty doorway, scrubbing both hands over his face in an attempt to wake himself up enough to remember where his clothing was. Tired as he was, he could not help but smile as the quiet sound of the front door opening was immediately followed by an explosion of voices, and, as he willed his legs to carry him away from the warmth of his bed and towards his dresser in search of a shirt, he had a vivid mental image of Hermione being nearly pinned to the floor as all of their well-wishers attempted to hug her at once.

The sound of footsteps dangerously close to the stairs spurred him on, and he quickly pulled a shirt from his dresser at random, not caring to be caught shirtless by Molly. He pulled it on over his head as he left the room, and, as he stepped onto the stairs, he grinned when his appearance brought forth another excited burst of voices from the crowd gathered near the front door. Just as he had expected, he spotted Hermione trapped in a vice-like simultaneous bear hug from Molly and Tonks, breathlessly trying to explain, "We _were_ going to tell all of you; we were just waiting for the right moment," and he hurried down the stairs before Ron and Remus could scramble up and risk taking all three of them over the railing. He laughed out loud as they congratulated him and slapped him on the back, neither one seeming to take the other's presence into account.

He, too, could learn to live with the occasional crooked picture on the _Prophet_'s front page, he thought as he let himself be passed around in the crowd, being hugged and having his hair tousled at every turn, if only in return for the memory of this, the sound of his fiancee laughing as she gave up trying to get her explanation heard over the commotion, and the joyful attention of the only fans he had ever wanted.


End file.
